A Blast to the Past
by thecrimsonmonarch
Summary: Why was Voldemort gone for more than a decade after his defeat at Harry Potter's one-year-old hands? Surely it didn't take the supposedly brilliant Dark Lord that long to recover? ... Did it? [HP/TMR, Dark Harry, Time Travel, Necromancy]
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: Why was Voldemort gone for more than a decade after his defeat at Harry Potter's one-year-old hands?

Surely it didn't take the supposedly brilliant Dark Lord that long to recover?

Did it?

**Disclaimer**: HP is JK Rowling's.

This chapter is directly copied from Chapter 17 of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Aside from the bit of tweaking I did at the end, I have left everything as it is, word for word.

**Warning**: M for slash (HP/TMR), Dark Harry, Time Travel, Necromancy

* * *

The night wet and windy, two children dressed as pumpkins waddling across the square, and the shop windows covered in paper spiders, all the tawdry Muggle trappings of a world in which they did not believe … and he was gliding along, that sense of purpose and power and rightness in him that he always knew on these occasions … not anger … that was for weaker souls than he … but triumph, yes … he had waited for this, he had hoped for it …

'Nice costume, Mister!'

He saw the small boy's smile falter as he ran near enough to see beneath the hood of the cloak, saw the fear cloud his painted face: then the child turned and ran away … beneath the robe he fingered the handle of his wand … one simple movement and the child would never reach his mother … but unnecessary, quite unnecessary …

And along a new and darker street he moved, and now his destination was in sight at last, the Fidelius Charm broken, though they did not know it yet … and he made less noise than the dead leaves slithering along the pavement as he drew level with the dark hedge, and stared over it …

They had not drawn the curtains, he saw them quite clearly in their little sitting room, the tall, black-haired man in his glasses, making puffs of coloured smoke erupt from his wand for the amusement of the small black-haired boy in his blue pyjamas. The child was laughing and trying to catch the smoke, to grab it in his small fist …

A door opened and the mother entered, saying words he could not hear, her long, dark red hair falling over her face. Now the father scooped up the son and handed him to the mother. He threw his wand down upon the sofa and stretched, yawning …

The gate creaked a little as he pushed it open, but James Potter did not hear. His white hand pulled out the wand beneath his cloak and pointed it at the door, which burst open.

He was over the threshold as James came sprinting into the hall. It was easy, too easy, he had not even picked up his wand …

'Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off –'

Hold him off, without a wand in his hand! … He laughed before casting the curse …

_'Avada Kedavra!'_

The green light filled the cramped hallway, it lit the pram pushed against the wall, it made the banisters glare like lightning rods, and James Potter fell like a marionette whose strings were cut …

He could hear her screaming from the upper floor, trapped, but as long as she was sensible she, at least, had nothing to fear … he climbed the steps, listening with faint amusement to her attempts to barricade herself in … she had no wand upon her either … how stupid they were, and how trusting, thinking that their safety lay in friends, that weapons could be discarded even for moments …

He forced the door open, cast aside the chair and boxes hastily piled against it with one lazy wave of his wand … and there she stood, the child in her arms. At the sight of him, she dropped her son into the cot behind her and threw her arms wide, as if this would help, as if in shielding him from sight she hoped to be chosen instead …

'Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!'

'Stand aside, you silly girl … stand aside, now …'

'Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead –'

'This is my last warning –'

'Not Harry! Please … have mercy … have mercy … Not Harry! Not Harry! Please – I'll do anything –'

'Stand aside – stand aside, girl –'

He could have forced her away from the cot, but it seemed more prudent to finish them all …

The green light flashed around the room and she dropped like her husband. The child had not cried all this time: he could stand, clutching the bars of his cot, and he looked up into the intruder's face with a kind of bright interest, perhaps thinking that it was his father who hid beneath the cloak, making more pretty lights, and his mother would pop up any moment, laughing –

He pointed the wand very carefully into the boy's face: he wanted to see it happen, the destruction of this one, inexplicable danger. He wanted to see the child's face at the sudden realization that no, it was not his father underneath the cloak. He stood directly in front of the crib and let the boy peer into his cowl.

The hunter finally had his prey.

Crimson locked on green eyes that ironically, or perhaps fittingly, were the same shade of the curse on the tip of his tongue. He waited for the child's wail for dramatic effect, but it didn't come. The child just stared unblinkingly at him. He did not like that.

_'Avada Kedavra!'_

And then he broke: he was nothing, nothing but pain and terror, and he must hide himself, not here in the rubble of the ruined house, where the child was trapped, but far away … far away …

Lord Voldemort was not aware of it at that time, but that was the moment the hunter became the hunted.

In fact, he never was the hunter to begin with.


	2. Chapter 2

Pained gut-wrenching screams suddenly filled the cold night air. They were long and drawn, like a wounded animal's cry; the very kind of sound that seeped into one's very bones and made those in hearing distance run away in primordial fear.

Alas, such a healthy amount of self-preservation wasn't present in everyone.

Under shadows casted by the thin crescent moon, a lone figure approached the writhing creature that had - just minutes past - literally appeared out of thin air.

"Shhhh!" he whispered in an attempt to hush the screaming man.

The _man_\- if you could still even call him that - was convulsing in the middle of a vast field of grass. The greenery around him withered at an alarming rate, the dead patch spreading even wider with every passing second. His skin looked like it was melting off his bones, and his black robe was smoking and scorched in places. He didn't appear to be aware of his surroundings, much less of the presence silencing him.

The hooded stranger, now crouched just about a meter away, sighed. Out of the folds of his cloak, a pale hand slid out with a polished stick in its grasp. With it he made a sharp motion in the air, as if stabbing an invisible enemy.

"_Stupefy,_" he intoned, voice soft but clear.

Suddenly, the screaming man's head snapped to the side, likely in search for the person who uttered the word. His deteriorating sight detected two indecipherable blobs of a familiar green glow.

_It meant something_, he thought – no, he _knew_ it did... But he was finding it hard to think, to breathe, to _exist_ –

The pain was simply too much. Before another torrent of screams could come out of his melted disfigured mouth, his consciousness was swallowed in red light.

Then there was nothing.

* * *

_'He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke – and that's why he's gone.'_

_She expectantly looked at her companion for correction, but he simply nodded._

_'It's – it's true?' she faltered, not expecting the rumor to hold some truth, much less _the_ truth. 'After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just outstanding... Of all the things to stop him...' she looked away, incredulity painted across her lined face. 'How in the name of heaven did Harry survive?'_

_The old man beside her looked up at the night sky. 'We can only guess,' he murmured softly, his eyes hidden behind half-moon spectacles that reflected the starless expanse above. 'We may never know.'_

* * *

White.

That was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes.

White sheets, like in the hospital wing.

His mouth felt like it was filled with sand, his bones like they would creak or snap at the slightest movement. Experimentally, he wriggled his toes and fingers; they seemed relatively fine. Breathing deeply, his eyes slid shut again and he pressed his face into the pillow. Despite being sore, he felt strangely refreshed and sleep-drunk. Tranquil.

It didn't last long.

Years of drilled vigilance finally caught up with him, and images

_Halloweenchildrendeathsmokelaughtergreen_

_Killmercynotharryeyeschildgreengreen_

_Greengreengreen_

_'Avada Kedavra!'_

images flashed behind his eyelids.

It was enough to jolt him completely awake.

Pain beyond pain beyond _pain_ exploded in his head. He tightly clenched his jaw, bottling the screams that were threatening to pour out. His hands fisted into the sheets at his sides, his toes curled in agony, and he swore his head was going to burst

_'Go back to Hell, Demon!'_

burst and_ burn_. He couldn't breathe.

_'Something's wrong with him.'_

Acting on instinct, he tried to trap everything behind Occlumency shields. But he was _weak_

_'Boohoo, weak wittle Tommykins can't even pwotect his pwecious pet. Weak Tommykins, weak Tommykins-'_

and his pathetic attempt easily crumbled like dust. All he could do was helplessly wait

_'It's fine.'_

for the pain

_'I don't believe you.'_

to subside

_'Everything will be fine.'_

on its

_'…Liar.'_

own.

…

Ever so slowly, the ringing in his ears ceased. His chest constricted, and he took hungry mouthfuls of air. He hadn't even realized that he had stopped breathing. He closed his eyes - listening to the beat of his heart and urging it to calm down. Once it did, he propped himself up on his elbows and took stock of the room he was in.

It was small and plain, with dark wooden panels lining the walls and the ceiling. There was no window, and the only source of light was a lamp beside the door, burning low. His bed was against a corner, and to its side was a nightstand - with which on top was a glass of water. It could be poisoned, but the extreme dryness in his throat made him reckless. He downed most of it in one go, just as a man dying of thirst would. A line dribbled down the corner of his mouth in his haste, and he made to wipe it off with the back of his hand. At the exact moment of contact though, he stiffened.

_'No,'_ he thought. His mind must be playing tricks on him. To be certain, he trailed a trembling finger across his… lips.

The empty glass was set aside on the table with a dull thud.

He held his face with both hands now; his fingers tracing the bridge of his nose, his knitted brows, and then combing through the strands on his head-

_'This shouldn't be possible.'_

Feeling more and more out-of depth, he looked around wildly, but there was no sign of his wand. He stood up, and the white blanket that had covered him previously slid down his frame, exposing naked flesh.

He had no wand, no clothes, and no idea as to _where_ he was, much less what was happening. He was basically a cornered animal; vulnerable and _clueless_.

He must remedy that at once.

He couldn't waste magic by conjuring his preferred black robes, not with his core drained as it was, so he bent down and grabbed the blanket at his feet. Needing his hands free, he decided to wrap it around his hips, the hem just falling slightly above his ankles. Upon making sure that the blanket's knot was secure enough to allow running if need be, he headed towards the simple wooden door.

Something cold settled in his gut. This was it. He had no idea what to find outside. He was, for the first time in _decades_, completely unprepared. He picked up the lamp on the floor, breathed in, and then opened the door.

What he saw outside was so unlike the drab room he stepped out of that he had to glance back to make sure he hadn't been transported to a different place altogether. He hadn't, but that didn't make the transition any less bizarre. His lamp provided him with a good radius of light in the dark and empty hallway, and he stared at the rich green expanse of the wall stretching indefinitely on both directions.

Carefully shutting the door behind him as to make no sound, he gathered himself and, with a rusty creak from the lamp as he raised it higher, faced left. For as long as he could remember, he had always been partial to that side. It was a childish fixation that he never had bothered to overcome. It made him predictable, but the ambidextrous Dark Lord hadn't really cared. Unfortunately, he couldn't afford not to care now. So, sparing little thought to breaking a life-long habit, he went right.

He walked and walked, chancing upon no one and nothing on his path except for the occasional bare end tables and paintings of unfamiliar landscapes. He watched everything with a critical eye, his pace never wavering.

Until he passed a suit of armor.

The suit didn't bother him per se, but what he _saw_ on its surface made his blood go cold. He knew that he had his old body back, and _old_ he expected it to be.

His reflection told him otherwise, though.

Sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle's face, thin and pale, almost seemed corpse-like in the lamplight. Gone were the crimson, snake-like eyes; in their place were grey orbs. It was a once-familiar shade that he had last seen on the day he had first created a horcrux.

Suddenly, a soft, barely audible trickle of sound reached his ears. Not wanting to face his own ghost any more than he'd had to, he tore his eyes away and followed the trail of music.

He didn't see the way the armor's empty helm rotated and followed his retreating form with non-existent eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

All it took was a small push and light seeped out of the gap.

He recoiled behind the partially open door, momentarily blinded. His free hand immediately snapped up to shield his eyes as the sharp pain in his head returned with a vengeance. He squinted, black spots swimming in his sight. Backing up a bit, he recuperated in the shadows as he set the now useless lamp down on the marble floor.

The childlike tumble of notes was still in the air, sounding even stranger when not muffled by the thick doors. From what he could tell, it was just an unending track of the white keys pressed one by one from end to end, but oddly enough, the sound seemed to help ease his headache. He blinked a few more times before pushing the door forward a bit more. Fortunately, the hinges were well-oiled, and made almost no sound.

As soon as he had sidled in, his eyes were drawn to the enormous window on the wall opposite him. Sunlight streamed through it, and spotlighted the only thing occupying the floor - a black Grand Piano. Sitting in front of the keys, face obscured by the sheet music and the piano lid, was the person repeatedly playing the _solfa_.

It was almost laughable how theatrical the entire set-up felt. It was like everything was staged, and he was an unknowing actor in the play.

"It would be more sensible for you to stay in bed."

The voice was soft, barely above a whisper and completely indistinguishable.

"Maybe, maybe not," he replied from his place by the door, his own voice raspy from disuse.

At his answer, the note in play was held. It dragged on before gradually vanishing into the silence. Then, the boy stood up to level him with a look.

The boy, probably still underage judging by his short stature, was very pale - paler even than him – and with his lack of color only made more pronounced by his jet-black hair and by the white shirt he was wearing. Round spectacles sat on the bridge of his nose, its glasses a blinding white due to the reflected sunlight. With the piano at his side, he looked like a portrait painted in bold black and white strokes, no shades in between.

That was until the boy tilted his head down, and eyes the same shade of the Killing Curse peered past the top of his glasses.

His head throbbed. "Who are you?" he asked with his best authoritative tone, trying to ignore the building pain in his skull.

"Illyrius Peverell," answered the boy without pause, looking unaffected by his sharp tone. "I brought you here. How are you faring?"

He didn't answer. He wasn't even sure if he had heard the question right. He was too caught up in the name that was echoing across the recesses of his mind.

_'"Peverell..."'_

Memories of ink and parchment and books ran past his eyes.

A flash of gold, a ring, a stone, a coat of arms, a triangle-

_'"See this? See this? Know what it is? Know where it came from? _ _Centuries it's been in our family, that's how far back we go, and pure-blood all the way! _ _Know how much I've been offered for this, with the Peverell coat of arms engraved on the stone?"'_

The pain reached a new high and a sudden bolt flared past the front of his skull. He winced.

Illyrius Peverell immediately moved forward in assistance. He glared at him, but the boy continued advancing.

"Sir," Illyrius intoned sharply, "you _must_ return to bed-"

"_Where are we?_" he hissed. Something in his tone must have scared Illyrius, for the boy immediately stopped in his tracks.

The pause that followed was a beat longer than normal, and his suspicions heightened.

"Godric's Hollow."

He grimaced. There was no doubt that Dumbledore had been informed of the events at the Potter household by now. The headmaster and his henchmen would be searching for him, and he was in no state to face the old wizard. He needed to-

"Go. I must go-"

"_Rest,_" Illyrius cut off. "Yes, you do. _But_ if you insist on talking," he added before the other could say anything in reply, "then I suggest a change of location at the very least. We have much to speak of, and we better do so while sitting down."

He watched Illyrius briskly walk away and pick up the lamp he had left by the door.

"Follow me."

Then Illyrius was off, and he was left with no choice but to actually follow. He walked behind Illyrius along the silent corridor, the whole time trying to remember when the last time he followed someone's orders was but failing.

* * *

_'How do I get him back?'_

_'It's impossible. It has never been done before-'_

_'I'll be the first, then.'_

_'I advise you not to - dabbling with Time - the consequences would be dire! You won't come out sane.'_

_'Who the hell said I was sane in the first place?'_

* * *

"You seem… at ease. Are you not worried that I'd try to poison you?"

He took another bite of bread. He looked past the heaps of food on the table and into the eyes of his host. Illyrius Peverell, though fiddling around with the tableware and making the appearance of eating, was actually yet to consume a single bite.

He swallowed.

"You would have killed me already if you wanted me dead," he reasoned, "meaning you want me alive. For information, most probably." To prove his point, he reached for his goblet, then took a swig of water. He swirled the ice-cold liquid in his mouth, inspecting the taste as he lowered the goblet back on the table. He spent a moment with his brows knitted in concentration, searching for that nearly indistinguishable quality. A second passed, and another, but it simply wasn't there. He was frowning when he gulped. "No veritaserum," he announced, honestly taken aback.

Illyrius stopped playing with the tableware and set them down. He leaned forward on his elbows.

"You seem to have a very poor opinion of your saviour," the boy said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

He dabbed at his mouth with a table napkin while unblinkingly meeting Illyrius' gaze. He set the cloth aside, then mimicked Illyrius' pose; elbows leaning on the edge of the table, fingers steepled under the chin.

"Are you?" he asked.

Illyrius merely tilted his head, as if in confusion.

"My '_saviour_,'" he clarified, putting extra emphasis on the word. "Are you?"

"In a sense."

He hummed. "In what sense?"

Illyrius clapped his hands. "I think it's my turn to ask a question," he cheerfully remarked. The next moment, his smile took a different glint. "Who are you?"

It was a fair question, he thought, one that had been niggling at the base of his own skull since he woke up but chose to brush aside.

Who _was_ he?

The young orphan _'Tom'_ had been dead for a long time, and _'Lord Voldemort'_… the respected Dark Lord was lost to him for now. That left him with-

"Marvolo."

"Marvolo," Illyrius mouthed carefully, like he was weighing it on his tongue. "And your Family Name…?"

_Marvolo_ tutted.

"One question at a time, Mr Peverell," he admonished. "It's my turn."

Illyrius looked ready to argue, but he went on.

"What is today's date?"

The boy was quick to chuckle, but Marvolo didn't miss his unmistakable moment of hesitation. "There's no need to exaggerate, Marvolo. You were only asleep for three days."

"You didn't answer the question, _Illyrius_," Marvolo replied with a curl of his lips, matching Illyrius charm for facile charm.

And suddenly, the smile on Illyrius' face lost all its warmth.

"It's the third of November," he said stiffly.

Marvolo leaned forward. "The _complete _date," he demanded.

Somehow, he could already guess what the answer was going to be. Illyrius closed his eyes and sighed.

_Bells rung in the distance-_

"1709."

_And time continued ticking._


	4. Chapter 4

Lord Voldemort, even during his early days as Tom Marvolo Riddle, was never fond of profanities. They were, in his opinion, disgustingly plebeian and uncouth, and he didn't understand the need for them.

Marvolo did now, though.

"You mean to tell me," he said, taking _very_ great care not to sound or look like he was talking of anything more consequential than the weather, "that it's Gamp's administration."

Ulick B. (for _Burke_, though he dearly wished right then that it stood for _Bloody_ instead) Gamp: the first-ever Minister for Magic. A muggle-loving brainless figurehead who masqueraded as a pure-blood supremacist for monetary reasons, and the man indirectly responsible for the widely-known Witch Hunts.

"Yes."

Marvolo could practically feel the throbbing pulse in his temple. Not only was he being told that it was _that _Gamp's era - he was also expected to believe that-

"The Statute of Secrecy has only recently come into effect."

Almost palpable silence followed his statement as Illyrius peered past the top of his glasses, gaze steady. "Precisely," he answered, with a single word confirming the worst of Marvolo's situation.

At that unblinking stare, pain stirred in Marvolo's head - _again_. He experimentally averted his eyes, focusing on the table napkin and then proceeding to wipe his mouth with it. Not to his surprise, the pain subsided immediately.

_'Legilimency,'_ he thought, putting the napkin back on the table and hiding his balled-up fists from view on his lap. _'This scrawny little boy could wandlessly and wordlessly cast a "_Legilimens_."_'

Then Illyrius spoke again, seemingly intent on not giving Marvolo a moment of calm any time soon.

"You're from the Future, aren't you?"

This was getting more and more out of hand. Marvolo shouldn't – _wouldn't_ be played at his own game. "Pardon?" he returned, brows furrowed.

"You're not from this time, that much is clear," Illyrius continued, disregarding Marvolo's attempt at playing clueless with a wave of his hand. "And seeing as you were unfazed by the _piano -_ a fairly recent invention still veiled from the Public's prying eyes… One need not be of great deduction prowess to ascertain _when _you're from."

"Do you accuse everyone who doesn't fall in awe of your piano of advanced, unknown and maybe even _impossible_ Magic?"

"Of course not," Illyrius laughed. He waved an arm at him. "Only those who are obviously guilty."

"So certain, _dear_ Illyrius," Marvolo remarked, returning Illyrius' laugh with one of his own. "Have care, or your arrogance will be your undoing."

"Is that a threat?"

"Do I look like I'm in any place to make threats, child?"

"You speak as if you are much older than myself."

"_Y__o__u _just speak too familiarly."

"I figured I should," Illyrius lightly said, lips slightly upturned, "with you being a _part of the family.::_

The last few words came out strangely - sibilant, though there was no reason for them to sound so - and if other people were in the room, they would have only heard a series of unintelligible hisses.

Alas, Marvolo wasn't one of those people. His eyes narrowed, but he kept his silence.

_::You're a Time-Traveler. Why else would there suddenly be an unknown and unrecorded descendant of Slytherin?::_Illyrius reasoned, undeterred._ ::And there's no need to keep up this charade - I know for certain you speak Parseltongue. You slipped into the language for a moment earlier, when you had asked me about our location.::_

Marvolo was slipping, and he was slipping hard. He was making mistakes he hadn't made since he was young. He _should_ have expected this, knowing that the Gaunts descended from the Peverells. But this was the first time he had heard another human speak in Parseltongue in a very long time, and he couldn't help but be caught off-guard. He sometimes forgot that he wasn't the only wizard to have been blessed with Slytherin's gifts.

"I…" He coughed to cover his initial silence. Until he knew Illyrius' game, it would be safer to assume ignorance. He tilted his head and smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry?"

"Oh? Can't you hear me clearly from there?" Illyrius mockingly asked, eyebrows raised high. He stood up from his seat, and walked towards Marvolo. He stopped a mere arm's length away, close enough to condescendingly stare down at Marvolo's sitting form. The sudden proximity seemed to bring the room's temperature up, making Marvolo intensely aware of his clothing.

_'Or lack thereof,'_ he thought, his hands fisting the blanket wrapped around his waist. '_Standard subjugation tactics. Of _course.'

_Everything_ had been orchestrated by this little boy. His missing clothes, the conversation, the food, the piano, the room he woke up in-

Maybe even his supposed time travel.

Marvolo had nothing.

"What do you want?" he asked in English, head bowed down in the perfect picture of surrender. Parseltongue had always been a magic-woven language, and he didn't want to worsen _all this_ by unknowingly being taken into a magically-binding vow of any kind.

"All I want," Illyrius answered, tone smug, "is to know how you got here. Now, tell me, or else-"

But having nothing also meant having nothing to lose.

"Or else what?"

With speed he didn't know he could manage in his weakened state, Marvolo simultaneously stood up, wrapped his left hand around Illyrius' neck, and pressed the bread knife he had pilfered a while ago against Illyrius' throat with his right hand.

"What are you doing?" Illyrius asked slowly. He sounded calm, but Marvolo could feel the pulse in his fragile little neck beat faster.

"One reason," he snarled, tightening his grip. "Give me one reason I shouldn't kill you right now."

"I have a wand," Illyrius snarled back, clawing at the fingers locked around his windpipe to no avail. It would seem that Marvolo not only had the advantage in size, but in brute force as well. He savored the feeling of pressing his nails against Illyrius' skin, and Illyrius rewarded him by gasping like a fish out of water. "Don't make me- use it-"

"You don't have a wand."

"I _do. _Listen, I don't _want_ to kill you-"

"-yet. See, you've been goading me into answering your questions the whole time, Illyrius, and you haven't exactly been subtle about it. Now, from what I gather, _you_ need _me_ to solve a very crucial… mystery, of sorts. Crucial enough to let a potential threat into your house, and to risk bending the law by not officially reporting the aforementioned threat to the Ministry."

"You would - probably be _dead_ by now if I hadn't bent the law," Illyrius panted heavily. "You _owe_ me a Life Debt."

"We can easily check if one is in place."

Illyrius' eyes widened. "You'll die if you kill me."

"And I won't if you're lying. I'm prepared to take the risk." Of course he wasn't, but Illyrius didn't need to know that.

"Marvolo - _Marvolo, _calm down. Let me get my wand instead to check. Nobody has to get hurt-"

Marvolo tightened his hold further still as he glared at Illyrius's bared neck.

"I'm Magic-sensitive, you little worm. I had known the whole time that you didn't have your wand with you," he hissed. "Tell me: why would you face me, _an unknown variable_, completely unarmed?"

The blue spidery veins under Illyrius' eyes started to bulge. "Core-' he gurgled out, scarcely coherent, "Your Magical Core's_\- fragmented-_"

Marvolo slightly loosened his grip in a silent _'Go on.'_

"You-" Illyrius gasped, taking large mouthfuls of air while he can. "You currently can't produce magic, or be around anything slightly magic-imbued, because your magical core is - is adjusting from the sudden repair of your soul. If you kill me now, the healing fissures in your soul would revert to their - to their initial state of shambles, and you would stay without magic longer."

Marvolo's other hand, the one holding the knife, jerked hard. Blood trickled down from where the knife had pierced Illyrius's skin.

"How do you know about the Horcruxes?" Marvolo whispered indignantly, unconsciously leaning closer to Illyrius to shield their exchange from listening ears, if ever there were some.

"What?" Illyrius rasped out, probably still too focused on breathing to notice he was bleeding. "Nothing." Marvolo raised him a few inches off the floor by the neck. "_Nothing_, I swear! This is the first time I've even encountered the word-"

"Then how do you know about the fissures?" Marvolo growled.

"Like how you knew I didn't have a wand. _You_ feel magic, and _I_ see-" Illyrius stared directly into Marvolo's eyes, "souls."

That's when it dawned on Marvolo that Illyrius might've been reading something much more personal than his surface thoughts earlier.

His fingers slackened completely, and Illyrius collapsed on his knees. Marvolo took a step back.

"You're a Necromancer."


	5. Chapter 5

Necromancy was to Magic as Latin was to Languages; complex, gruelling to learn, and ultimately dead.

Since the beginning of Magic, Necromancers had always been rare and short-lived beings. There never were more than three in a century, and the death of one, even when considered a great loss of natural talent, was never a matter of global-magical catastrophe. That was why when Tutenheim the Puppeteer died in Ancient Egypt at the age of 11, nobody had any reason to think that he would be the last full-blooded Necromancer in recorded Magical History.

It wasn't until a whole century had passed since his passing and no Magical Line had still produced new Necromancer blood had the Magical Community finally realized the true impact of Tutenheim's death. What had then followed was a desperate treasure hunt for Necromantic texts; a search that had taken another few centuries, but was deemed fruitless anyway in the end. Apparently, Necromancers produced no substantial notes, no written accounts, and no all-powerful Necromantic Grimoires. Why should they have had? After all, they never had any reason to write their secrets down. Each practitioner of the Art had learned about Necromancy by communing with the spirits of Necromancers long gone, and upon their own death, they would simply have joined the Dead and pay their dues by passing the knowledge on to the next Necromancer to find them. The exclusivity of the cycle was simply meant to be a precaution to keep the Art safe from the unworthy and the dangerously curious, but due to the apparent non-existence of first-hand texts, Necromancy had soon been deemed well and truly lost by majority of the Wizarding World.

Until three millennia later, at which point in time Necromancy was resurrected, along with an army of the Dead.

Lord Voldemort's creation of Inferi quickly became recognized as his magnum opus. It elevated him from mere _'Dark Lord'_ to _'The Greatest Dark Lord in Centuries'_ seemingly overnight. The Light cowered in fear, and a new wave of Dark Witches and Wizards flocked to his side. Still, Marvolo never assumed to call himself a true Necromancer, even with the success of Inferi creation under his belt. After all, his Necromantic knowledge was purely speculation on his part - not to mention largely untested - and he could have just as much died as he could have had succeeded in his experimentation.

So just how ironic was it that when he most needed Necromantic tutelage, he was unable to find any, and _then_ when Necromancy was just the farthest thing in his mind, a living, breathing natural-born Necromancer appeared out of the blue like a perfectly done conjuration? He couldn't resist thinking about how the War would have gone unbelievably faster - how fewer Magical blood would have been spilled - if he had access to one at the time.

Once again, he was led to consider the possible repercussions of his absence in the War. Questions upon questions with no certain answers in sight: Had the Order of the Phoenix won? Had the Death Eaters disbanded? Or was 1981 somehow paused, just because it hasn't happened yet in 1709?

Marvolo pursed his lips and he punched his invisible target with extra force, the air sharp and cold against his arm. He couldn't stay idle after that conversation with Illyrius, so Marvolo was back in the room he had first found himself in, taking the rest of the day to banish the stiffness in his limbs and to think about his following course of action. He had already explored as much of the mansion as he could after he and Illyrius had parted ways, and he had been surprised to find the mansion's main entrance unlocked. He could have left then, but he chose not to; not without his wand, and especially not without answers. Still, finding out that he had a way out calmed him and made him rethink his opinion of Illyrius.

Could Illyrius Peverell be a good ally? Could he be, at a certain degree, trusted? When Marvolo had returned to the windowless room, a clean set of clothes his size sat folded on the bed, while on the floor was a pair of brown working boots and white socks. Marvolo had worn them, but that didn't stop him from thinking about Illyrius' goals. Why would he give him clothes now when he hadn't bothered before? What did he really hope to accomplish with this? Marvolo felt another bout of irritation coming, and he poured all of it into a kick. He hated this, hated not knowing, hated being the one being played instead of the other way around. But most of all, he hated this whole Time Travel fiasco. It had been an amusing topic to turn around in his mind before – not so much now that it wasn't theoretical anymore.

Because "now" was 1709, and Marvolo was (temporarily but very glaringly) magic-less, stuck with a full-blooded Necromancer exactly 272 years before his time. Marvolo flicked through his memories of History, but he remembered no notable news of anything Necromancy-related during the years surrounding 1709 (or any other year since the wane of Necromancy, really). Either Illyrius was lying about being a Necromancer, or he had successfully kept his powers secret from the Wizarding Public.

_'Unless…'_ Marvolo frowned as he thought of another possibility.

Unless he was in an alternate reality. That would change a lot of things. That would mean he wasn't in the Past per sè, but in an entirely different plane of existence.

His frown morphed into a grimace.

To make things worse, the absolute solitude hadn't been as good for his mental state as he had first thought. Time alone with only his thoughts for company simply made Marvolo more aware of how he _felt._

So far, what Illyrius had said before seemed to hold credence, because Marvolo could genuinely feel again. He felt angry, worried, impatient – and a _great_ deal confused. After decades of detachment, the myriad of emotions had taken him by surprise, and the only explanation that he could think of was that his Horcruxes had indeed been destroyed by his Time Travel (or, rather than 'destroyed,' still non-existent, due to the whole paradox of existing before one's Time). Nevertheless, what it all boiled down to was that he had no soul-anchors at the moment.

He was mortal once again.

_'What an absolute mess,' _he thought, taking a moment to catch his breath, his hands on his knees.

If Dumbledore were here, the old man would simply be stumbling over his ridiculous robes in his haste to push Marvolo over the edge. Thank Salazar for small miracles.

* * *

For the next few days, Marvolo focused on strengthening his once-again-human body. He still hadn't seen _anyone_ \- including Illyrius - around the mansion since their last talk, but he rather doubted that the place was as empty as it appeared to be. Every time he went to the dining room, warm food was already served, while the nearest bathroom always had hot water and clean clothes waiting for him. Marvolo believed House-elves responsible, because otherwise thinking about the alternative - namely Illyrius catering to his needs unseen - was simply unsettling to imagine.

It didn't take long for Marvolo to fall into a routine mainly consisted of training, eating, and planning. Every night before going to bed, he would check to see if the main entrance was still unlocked. It remained ever so, and the knowledge helped him sleep at night.

Then, exactly four days after his talk with Illyrius, Marvolo felt the first stirrings of magic beneath his skin.

He decided then to be the first one to break their fragile silence.

* * *

_'No, your magical core is still too small for this ritual – your body won't be able to handle it. You need to wait!'_

_'"_Wait_?" I've waited long enough.'_

_'Exactly! You've waited this long already. Do you want to waste all those years away just because of one botched up ritual that you could have done perfectly in just a few more years? If you really want to get this Marvolo of yours back, you need to let your core grow first. And the only way your core can grow is to let time do its natural course.'_

_'So that's _it_? I went all the way here to get the advice of a so-called Master, and that's all you suggest I do. Just _wait_.'_

_'…I'm sorry, but that really is all you can do right now, Harry Potter. Do nothing, and wait.'_

* * *

It was nearing night, and the dining room was bathed in shadows. A single candle was propped in the middle of the long table, providing a small sphere of dancing light. The silverware closest to it rippled in view like molten metal, glittering in the face of the small flame. Steps – quiet enough to not raise alarm, but not enough to be unnoticed – echoed in the large space. They grew more pronounced as a figure approached the table, the candle, and gradually, Illyrius Peverell bled out of the darkness. He was just about to reach for a plate when off the end of the hall came a—

"Good evening."

"_Merlin-" _Illyrius hissed, jerking in place. He squinted at the direction the greeting came from, and only then noted the very faint presence of someone else in the room.

"No, it's 'Marvolo', I assure you," the presence said.

Suddenly, all the unlit candles in the room, including those on the chandelier overhead, came to life. Illyrius bit back a sharp breath as he shielded his eyes with his hand, blinking off the sudden onslaught of bright candlelight.

"I see that your Magic has returned," Illyrius bitingly commented, "along with your sense of humour."

Marvolo didn't grace him with a reply, and Illyrius could almost feel the silence wrap around his throat like a vise. Under the glamours on his throat, he could imagine the stripes of bruises warming and itching at the presence of their creator.

He had underestimated Marvolo before; he wouldn't make the same mistake now.

Marvolo then rose from his seat at the head of the table, and made his way towards him. Illyrius stood his ground, but he kept his hand poised and ready to draw his wand at a moment's notice. Just when the silence was getting too oppressive, Marvolo spoke.

"Let's have a truce." He put his hand forward, face blank but eyes burning.

Illyrius looked into those grey eyes, suddenly gripped by what really was happening right then. What events had led him to be there, with this stranger from the Future? He looked at Marvolo's proffered hand, and he couldn't help but think that this is the beginning of _something_. What, he didn't know yet, but he would be damned not to take the opportunity.

He reached out in return.

"A truce it is, then."

* * *

11/4/2016

**Note:** I can't believe that it's been MORE THAN A YEAR since my last update. Gah, I just might be one of the slowest writers ever. Anyway, just a note, this isn't abandoned! (yet, haha)


End file.
